


Taxi's Waiting

by AdamantSteve



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Get Together, M/M, Text Messages, absence makes the heart grow fonder, phone pictures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-14 23:50:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1283356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint does a mission with the Agents of SHIELD crew whilst Phil's not there. Skye essentially sets them up with each other via the magic of photo messaging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taxi's Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Selori who betaread this for me! I subsequently went through and edited it so any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> This was inspired by a photo of Ming Na Wen and Jeremy Renner which I would link, but I have lost it in the sands of Tumblr.

Clint throws an arm around Ward and grins for the flash of Skye’s phone camera. She’s been snapping pictures all evening, first of the neon blue shots that appeared as part of an experiment that FitzSimmons were arguing about and then during a game of pool with May, Clint teaching Gemma the beermat trick he picked up as a kid, a photo of Clint’s boots (for some reason). 

 

Clint’s gotten tipsy from the good cheer and good booze, an op wrapped up with nary an injury making them all cheerful and easy with their camaraderie.

 

Coulson’s not there; he’s back in New York working on something classified, but even though Clint’s a little disappointed, he has to admit he’s kinda glad he can let loose without worrying over making an ass of himself in front of him. Clint’s always wary of acting too much the fool in front of Coulson, so he tries to keep himself in check whenever he’s around. Instead of drinking and dancing, they have quiet conversations in dark corners, talking over the minutia of their last mission. 

 

But now, with Coulson out of sight (though most certainly not out of mind), Clint’s easy with his smiles, happy to laugh and make dumb jokes. He’s even eyeing up the jukebox; maybe there’s something in there worth singing along to. 

 

Skye pushes a bright pink shot into Clint’s hand and holds out her camera at arm’s length to take a photo of the both of them as they drink. It tastes like burning spices, but Clint’s too far gone to mind much. 

 

The other good thing about this new team of Coulson’s is that they’re more able than anyone to fill him in on how Phil’s actually _doing_ these days, after the whole Asgardian shish kabob thing. Clint’s hardly up to Skye’s hacking standards but he’s found a few files - enough to know 99% of everything there is is redacted. It’s not that he’s worried, it’s just that Phil’s one of his own, is all. 

 

May’s someone Clint’s worked with a few times, a stalwart of SHIELD much like Coulson. She raises a single eyebrow when Clint says something along those lines, but Clint knows her well enough to recognize when she’s shitting with him. Her icy demeanour swiftly morphs into a grin, and Clint hears a ‘hey butthead’ before there’s another camera flash and spots in Clint’s eyes. 

 

“He misses you, you know,” May says over the music that Ward appears to have put on. It’s something obnoxious and poppy, but Ward’s not dancing to it, he’s leaning back on the jukebox and watching Simmons dance around a scowling Fitz. As Clint watches, Skye fiddles with her phone before joining them, and soon enough the three of them are dancing like grinning idiots. 

 

“Who?” Clint says, peering down into the new drink that’s found its way into his hand. He can feel May’s eyeroll as she turns back to the bar with a snort. 

 

Clint starts making his way over to Ward, who’s effectively guarding the jukebox from the rest of the bar’s patrons by leaning on it and radiating ‘nope’. The place is pretty crowded — some civilians, though in this corner of town it’s mostly agencies of one kind or another. It’s the sort of place you can argue over particle physics and terrorist cells and unidentified off-world matter without many people batting an eyelid. Clint is weaving around a group of what appear to be FBI agents when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He pulls it out and finds he has a text.

 

_Coulson: Whatever they’re telling you, it’s not true._

 

Clint laughs and stops on the edge of the dancefloor, smiling to himself as he composes a reply. 

 

_C Bartz: Are you sure? Skye has some pretty interesting stories._

 

There’s a flash of Skye taking another picture, probably of Fitz and Ward, who seem to be having a standoff over the jukebox, when a reply comes through. 

 

_Coulson: Then they’re definitely not true._

 

Clint snorts and starts writing _‘I miss you’_ but deletes it and says ‘ _We miss you_ ’ instead. That’s not so bad. 

 

_C Bartz: We miss you. Having way too much fun._

 

He should probably move. The FBI people are slowly making their collective way over the threshold of the dancefloor, and the music’s something even more obnoxious and dancey than before. Clint’s right in their path. 

 

_Coulson: You look happy._

 

Clint frowns and looks up in time to be blinded by Skye’s flash. He reaches out and grabs her phone, preparing to put up with a slapfight to get it, but Skye gives it up easily. “Grabby,” she says, smirking.

 

Clint humphs in her direction. “Have you been sending Coulson photos of us?” He asks, scrolling through her phone. There’s a conversation of messages between Skye and Phil along with a dozen or so photos of the team from throughout the night. The last one is of Clint looking down at his phone. 

 

Clint glares at Skye. “Is Coulson seriously in your phone as ‘Papa Smurf?” 

 

“No… that’s uh… Fury.” 

 

Every picture is accompanied by an annotation. They don’t make sense until Clint scrolls to the top where there’s a photo of Clint talking to Ward as they both dust the tips of pool cues with chalk. Clint’s smiling openly. Clint thinks he looks kind of dopey. It’s accompanied with: ‘ _Ward telling him about the time you two almost got zapped by that electric fence thing.’_

 

Alongside a photo of Simmons gesticulating wildly and Clint looking entranced: _‘Simmons regaling Clint with the tale of you defeating that weirdo gravity guy.’_

 

And so on it goes. The last one, with Clint looking at his phone and grinning like a complete dolt has a caption that says _‘getting a text from you. Just saying, dude.’_

 

It’s embarrassing, and on a normal day Clint’d be pissed off, but he’s just buzzed enough that he kind of doesn’t care. He _is_ happy right now, and he’s happy that Coulson’s doing so well. Sure maybe Clint misses him, but that’s the job. You have different teams, you move on. 

 

“So now Coulson’ll write me up for being a sloppy drunk?” Clint says. 

 

Skye rolls her eyes as hard as May did, and Clint’s not sure what he’s missing. She tugs her phone out of his hand and scoots behind Fitz to gain command of the jukebox while he keeps Ward distracted. 

 

Clint downs the dregs of his beer and heads outside for some air as the first strains of a Black Eyed Peas song come on, followed by a of dismay from either Ward or Fitz.

 

Phil picks up after the second ring. 

 

“How’s it going?” Clint asks, ‘cause he has no good excuse for calling so he’s just going to head that question off at the pass. “I see Skye’s been keeping you in the loop.”

 

It’s cold outside after the humidity of the bar, but Phil’s rich laughter makes Clint feel warm anyway. 

 

“She has,” he agrees. “What do you think of them?” 

 

Clint laughs, because he’d been quietly jealous about this team when it was first formed, feeling privately put out that he wasn’t a part of it even if he was part of another, arguably more impressive team. Having worked a mission with them, he can feel Coulson in each of them, and the jealousy has turned into something else. A fraternal sense of kinship, perhaps, like they’re all Coulson’s Angels or something. 

 

“They’re not bad,” he says, and he knows Phil will understand exactly what he means. 

 

“Thank you, Clint.” 

 

Clint catches a whiff of the cigarettes other patrons are smoking further up the side of the building, and suddenly his heart aches with the memory of when Phil used to smoke, back in the really old days. Apparently he only started again when Clint was put into his rotation. That he hasn’t heard of Coulson smoking since then gives Clint a sense of accomplishment that he holds onto jealously. He hopes Coulson doesn’t smoke over any of this new team. 

 

“Not sure about that Ward, though,” Clint says, poking a thumb at the brick wall next to him. “I mean, his aim’s pretty good but I’ve yet to see him shoot anything paleolithic _or_ jump off a building.” 

 

Phil laughs, and he sounds like he’s lying down. Clint wonders if it’d be weird to ask, or maybe just weird enough that it can seem like a joke. “He’s no Hawkeye,” Phil concedes. “But as you know, I love all my children equally.” 

 

“That reminds me!” Clint says. “Did you know you’re in Skye’s phone as ‘Papa Smurf’?”

 

“I did know that actually. Did she tell you why?” 

 

“There’s a reason beyond ‘for the lulz’?”

 

“Oh god. Well, Skye calls me ‘Papa Smurf’ because there was an incident in the lab and my arm got dyed blue for a while.” 

 

“What?!” 

 

“Yep. That’s classified too, so don’t spread it around.” 

 

Clint’s been privy to plenty of classified things he wasn’t meant to have access to before, due to his own snooping around or on-the-fly mission changes, but this is different — this is an unexpected intimacy. He smiles but consciously tries not to sound too much like he’s smiling.

“Sure thing, boss.” 

 

“I am sorry I’m not there,” Phil says after a pause. “I’d like to have introduced you to everyone myself, though it seems you’ve all made friends anyway.” 

 

Clint moves so that the smokers can make their way back inside, smelling like frazzled 30-year-old Phil Coulsons. “They’re good people,” Clint says. “I mean, you’re not smoking again, are you?” 

 

“Ha, no, though whether that’s to do with being on a plane ninety percent of the time or willpower, I’m not entirely sure.”

 

“I can do some death defying things if you need a push,” Clint offers. “You know how the tobacco industry is struggling.” 

 

Phil laughs again, warm and fond. Clint misses him, toes curling in his boots as he leans back against the wall and looks up at the cold black sky. If he closes his eyes he can imagine Phil’s right there, smoking a cigarette beside Clint in companionable silence. Or grumbling at him; either way.

 

“I miss you,” says Phil. Clint’s eyes snap open and he laughs before he can stop himself. It’s an easy thing to say, though not so easy to let it hang in the air, which is what Phil does; just says it and allows it to hover. 

 

“Miss you too, boss,” Clint replies. And then he thinks, what the hell. “We should… We should do this in person some time. Go out for something greasy and shoot the shit.” He doesn’t say ‘date’. Doesn’t even think ‘date’. 

 

“It’s a date,” Phil says. 

 

Clint doesn’t argue. Phil doesn’t mean it like that anyway. 

 

-

 

It’s cold in New York, and Phil looks weirdly good considering. Clint finds him in his old office, drinking terrible coffee and scowling at his computer screen. He picks up a stack of files to make room for himself on the couch, putting his feet right in their familiar divot. It doesn’t feel quite the same, but it’s good nonetheless. 

“Feet off the furniture, Barton,” Phil says before looking up from his screen. When he does. though, he grins and then laughs with Clint, and Clint feels giddy and childish, like he wants to play a game or tell a joke. 

 

“I’ve just come back from a mission,” Clint whines. “This is your couch’s civic duty.” 

 

Phil turns off his computer faster than Clint’s ever seen him do it in the past. “C’mon,” he says. “You owe me lunch.” 

 

“Pretty sure you owe me lunch,” Clint can’t help but say in reply. He hip-checks Phil on the way to the elevator, and it feels like old times. 

 

-

 

Phil’s gonna be back on the bus in a few days, and it’s not like Clint really knows what he wants, but he knows he wants _something_. That’s a lie: he knows exactly what he wants but he doesn’t want to admit it to himself. Phil’s the same anyway, probably. They’re in the same 100 mile radius once every few months; It’s crazy to pursue a relationship that doesn’t show any signs of ever being anything but long distance. Still, the heart wants what it wants.

 

They don’t talk about any of that, though. Not during lunch that day or dinner that evening. Not during lunch or dinner the next day, either. Clint half-figured his Coulson-time would be the cure for this longing he’s felt, but it just makes it worse. He finds himself dreading Phil leaving again and missing this window of opportunity. 

 

They go to Phil’s little apartment after dinner that second night. The place is covered in dust and there’s mail piled up in Phil’s mailbox. They’re both still full from dinner they ate not an hour earlier, but Clint says something about pizza and Phil says something about how he hasn’t had a real New York slice in a long time. 

 

Phil’s rummaging in a kitchen drawer for delivery menus, and Clint finds himself right there behind him, pulled there by invisible strings. You’re not supposed to approach an agent from behind like this, but Phil knows he’s there; he always knows. He doesn’t flinch when Clint touches his waist, but he turns and looks so young for a moment when he licks his lips and looks at Clint. 

 

Clint should probably say something, he thinks, as those strings pull them closer, but there’s nothing to be said anymore. His lips are working on their own when they meet Phil’s. There’s soon a hand on Clint’s waist, and the soft sound of a dozen takeout menus falling to the floor as Phil deepens the kiss. Clint lets out a moan which ought to be embarrassing, though it coaxes a similar one from Phil and he can’t bring himself to mind.

 

The hand on Clint’s waist tightens, and the lips start to pull away. He chases them, because the sooner this kiss is over, the sooner this whole thing is over, but Phil doesn’t go far. He looks at Clint with eyes that are happy if a little wary. Clint wonders if this is something Phil’s thought about as long and as hard as Clint has. 

 

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Phil says, looking at Clint like that’s supposed to mean something. 

 

Clint shrugs before putting his other hand on Phil’s waist. “So what? I could be shipping out with the Avengers any second or I might get pulled back into SHIELD rotation. These are our lives.” 

 

Phil moves his jaw as if trying to compose the words that’ll convey his meaning, but Clint presses in for a kiss instead, and Phil eagerly lets him have it. 

 

-

 

Later, when they’re watching dust motes swirl through the air above them in bed, Clint finds Phil’s hand and holds it tight before turning over and looking at him. He’s still flushed, pink and perfect even with the scars. Clint’s gaze lingers.

 

“I’m glad you’re ok,” he says. He said the same when they were fucking, holding on to Phil like he’d disappear otherwise, just float away weightlessly, but now it’s different. Everything’s different.

 

“I’m glad too,” Phil replies. They trade lazy kisses for a minute, just for the pleasure of doing so. “And I’m glad this happened.” 

 

“Yeah?” Clint asks, mouth sliding into a lopsided smile. That’s not what people say after things like this.

 

Phil nods and kisses him again before pulling their joined hands up to kiss Clint’s knuckles.  “Yeah,” he says. Clint kind of expects him to elaborate, and it shows in his face. Phil bites his lip and just looks happy, as if there’s not a single reason he can think of that this could be a bad idea. 

 

“Do you wanna do it again?” Clint asks. When Phil looks down his body, Clint quickly adds, “not right now! I mean, next time we’re in the same kinda place. Next time we can.” 

 

“I would love that,” Phil says. He swallows and looks serious for a second. “I like talking to you,” he says like it’s a confession. He focuses on rubbing the pad of his thumb over Clint’s fingernails when he continues. “I’d like it if we keep talking when I’m away.” 

 

Clint feels hope bloom in his chest at the prospect of Phil making time for him when he’s away with his new team. They’re not even new now, not really. “I’ll call you every day,” he says, and when Phil looks at him like he’s joking, he adds, “I mean it. Well, you know, if I’m not knee deep in snow or hiding out on a roof.” 

 

“I think that’s reasonable.” 

 

They don’t speak for a while, though there’s a little more making out, which feels so easy and natural for something as new as this is. 

“I feel like I should be worried about this, but I’m not,” Clint confesses at last. “I don’t know what I was… What I was waiting for.” 

 

“I could give you a list of reasons it’s a bad idea to date a coworker,” Phil replies, “or show you the parts of the agent handbook that strongly makes the case against it.” 

 

“But you know what I mean.” 

 

“I do know what you mean. Maybe we needed the distance to realise something was there.” 

 

“There is, right?” Clint says. “Something here?” 

 

Phil rolls them then, putting himself on top of Clint so he can look down on him, looking fierce and content all at the same time.  “ _I_ think so,” he says. 

 

“We’re gonna have to have a lot of phone sex,” Clint decides. 

 

Phil laughs easily, and Clint thinks he’s never seen him look so happy. 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
